


The sweetest flavor of all.

by Kazmodeus



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, M/M, Platonic Romance, Some OOC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazmodeus/pseuds/Kazmodeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony begins to ask himself what is he doing working in a cafe when one day, from nowhere, he gets his answer...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The sweetest flavor of all.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here is a little headcannon that I couldn't get out of my head, I'm planning on doing one more chapter, but I'm still thinking if I should make it larger or no, what do you guys think? Constructive comments and critics are well received (also corrections, remember english it's not my first language :p)

Today is a day like any other; the warm summer breeze extends everywhere, the smell of coffee fills my nose, people constantly coming and going but always, at 5 pm, every day, is when I start to need a little more air to breathe...

I´ve been working in this cafe for a couple of years, nothing really glamorous. At first I thought it would only be temporary, I needed money and the owner hired me after a not very thorough interview, a couple of questions and a smugly smile.

I often wonder what keeps me here, in this work, in this routine. I finally finished my engineering, I could get a job ten times better paid... but I do not. Maybe it's the coffee, I have always been a lover of it, only God knows how many times I woke up after a hard night begging for a cup of coffee and a toast.

Now that I think it's kinda funny, that's how I got here first: I had attended a party at my old fraternity, they had asked for help to place the lighting and sound required for that night, the football team of the school had won the state championship and we should party like crazy. I've never really been enthusiastic about parties, but this was special, would have food to feed a pack of wolves and alcohol to burn down half the campus.

My name is Anthony E. Stark, Tony for friends, that are really not many, even when that is something sad to admit.

Returning to the subject, the party was wild, it was morning and I went back to my apartment carrying a huge hangover, the little sun that came to pass through my glasses to my eyes felt like needles that penetrated the bare skin, the sound of the cars shook my head as if they were getting paid for it.

Just when I started to fall off was that my feet led me to a door, I lifted my eyes and read "Etoile Cafe". “Hallelujah!” I said to myself, “Coffee at last!” How I could I opened the door, the tinkling sound of the bell on the door announced my arrival and caused a slight tic in my left eye.

Long story made short: the coffee was delicious, I loved the place, I returned several times until I saw a sign that read "Help Wanted", I was short of cash for those dates so I asked the owner for the job, who did not hesitate to accept by being one of his regular customers (that and the fact I could do repairs absolutely for free).

Some years later here I am with myself immaculate conception of the world: everything is done in shades of gray, sometimes too white, some other absurdly black.  
If I could say another reason why I'm still here I think it would because it is very easy to work here; I can gossip from time to time with customers, I meet different kind of people, I get all the coffee I want and I've even learned mundane things as making cakes or differentiate the taste of coffee beans with different roasts.

But my world turned over a little over a week ago, it was a normal day, or so I thought, there is no doubt that the world has very little common ways to slap you with white gloves and get away with it. I had begun my turn, it was a rainy day and I was alone in the cafeteria, there were no customers, it was a particularly slow but cozy evening, the smell of wet earth bristled my neck, the sound of water hitting from every window and the puddles seemed to lull anyone who lend enough attention to notice these things.

I was resting behind the counter, squinting my eyes, I should realized that this was the calm before the storm but I did not and there is nothing that cheers me more in this life.  
I opened my eyes thanks to Cloche announcement (Cloche is the small bell that lives on the door, the owner likes to name things, and although at first I refused to accept such behavior I ended up assimilating the idea, I do not make the rules of this place I just follow, I guess).

My throat dried a little, I was definitely dreaming, I took off my glasses and I rubbed my eyes a little keen to make sure I was not asleep. I was not. Entering through the door as he was closing his umbrella, wearing a fur coat, plaid shirt, blue king jeans and boots, the most attractive guy who I never imagined that existed was entering. I was stunned by such an image, he stopped for a moment to put his umbrella in the umbrella stand, from his right hand hung a huge portfolio, the kind that artists use to transport his canvases and paints, finally with a slight movement he placed the portfolio under his left arm as he approached the counter where I was looking like an idiot.

It did not take him more than two minutes to order a coffee and a slice of red velvet cake with meringue and cherries that I had personally made the day before, I had to use most of my concentration to not show mesmerized by his face and the manly factions that I could appreciate: a square chin, the ghost of a beard that looked out after a few days without shaving, a wide nose that matched a large and youthful forehead, his eyes, god, eyes so blue that I could almost feel fall into freefall. His hair was blond, not enough to look fake but not so bleak as to ignore.

He politely asked if he could sit near the central window of the cafe.

“Of course” I said and next I informed him that in a moment I would take his order to him, so after paying he proceeded to sit in his place to see the rain falling on the city.

I say " his place" because from that day a week ago he comes every day and sits exactly in the same place without fail at 5 pm Cloche tells me of his arrival and about half an hour later, she tells me of his departure.

The memories of that day are engraved in my memory, after delivering his order he took some things from his briefcase and began to draw what he saw through the window...

I could not contemplate him as much as I would liked because for my luck a handful of students who were hiding from the rain on their way to campus came inside, I was so busy that I cursed being the only one in the cafeteria that day. When I realized he had already gone and at his table there was only the slice of cake he had ordered with empty coffee cup, of his cake there was everything except the cherries that were on top.

Thus began a small "routine" from which I'm not entirely sure being conform; he walks through the door even if it rains, if it is sunny or cloudy, cold or not, I approach him to take his order which is always the same, a coffee accompanied by a slice of cake on duty, but what bothers me is that he always, always, after leaving he leaves on the table the slice of cake, no matter waht flavor it is, having only eaten the toppings.

The reason why it bothers me? Well, I AM in charge of making the cakes, I break my back a while to do them the best way possible for that guy to come, ask for a slice and then leave it to be thrown away. As you can see there is a conflict of interest in me, I really wish I could say something, I swear I have practiced dozens of times in front of the mirror the perfect argument to figure out why my cakes are not being eaten.

But when I arrive with him I run into those eyes, with that so calm look, so quiet, I really do not understand what he wants of me when he looks at me that way so I just shrug and ask him if he wants the same as usual, he nods while returning his gaze to his sketches, I feel so small... and not say just by height, I'm pretty sure he beats me by solid 10 centimeters, not to mention when he is using his boots, I feel like if he desired it, he could get me into his pocket and run with me, but of course, that's just one of my fantasies.  
It was not until the end of the third week when I decided, today is the day, the day when I’m gonna say everything that I think of him and his pretentious way to despise my cakes.  
It's 4:30 pm, my stomach starts to shrink and my hands begin to sweat a bit, everytime I hear Cloche I turn my head looking for that handsome face even when I know well that it’s not yet time, I just have to wait a little longer.

It's 5:00 pm and he does not come, five minutes passes to become ten and he is still missing... I guess it was not my day to be brave ...

My stomach instead of becoming smaller starts to growl, as if he was upset, I feel like I started to get cranky, noise stresses me and I would like to throw my apron and go home. Is it because I have not had enough coffee? Is it because I wanted to tell him so many things that being unable to do it my head is charging me the bill? Or is it just because I failed to see it one day? God how childish, I really hope they are the first two, the last one would make me look completely ridiculous, I'm not a child anymore, contrary to what I often prove.

That's when Cloche makes a small noise, I do not pay attention because I am so absorbed in my thoughts.

“Anthony, please attend the table eight.” the owner tells me, forced to I pay attention to the table and there he is, as perfect as ever, with his peaceful expression and those puppy dog eyes that should be illegal in a stud of his complexion.

The blood goes to my head and in a hurry I approach the table, I put both hands on the table and I start to chatter:

“I know you want a coffee and a slice of cake, but I demand to know why you never eat it. I make the cakes daily and everyone praises them, I always work very hard. I come in the morning to prepare them and I’m always looking for new recipes, I want to know why my efforts are not enough for you.”

When I least realize my face is the color of the strawberries that decorate many of my cakes How could I be so stupid? I really said all that? He is a customer but more importantly, he is a customer in which I am particularly interested.

There is a silence in the middle of the two, I do not know what to do, my legs do not respond even to run away with the tail between my legs, he just stares into mine, he leans back in the chair and places his hands folded on the table.

“I just don’t like sweets” He answers.

“So why do you always order the cake?”

“I just want an excuse to see you everyday.” That’s it, I'm dead, I'm sure my face was the color of Mars within two seconds of hearing his answer. Earth swallow me please.

“So do you make the cake?” He questions me without even hesitating.

“Yes.” Is all I can answer as I still hold his gaze.

“Bring me the same then.”

“Yes. Sorry for all that.”

“It’s okay.”

Along the little dignity I had left I ducked my gaze to address the counter and hide like a rabbit in hunting season, I ask one someone else to deliver his order, shame wouldn’t let me face him.

After thirty minutes the place is empty as usual, but this time without doubt something is different, on the table, next to an empty coffee cup, is a pastry dish with just a few crumbs and below it a carefully folded paper leaf, I take it very carefully and unfold it. It was a sketch of that first day, he had made a picture of me while attending the group of students, I turn my gaze to the bottom of the page:

A gift, Sincerely yours. Steven Grant Rogers

I put a hand on my flushed face while with the other I put the paper against my chest...

**Author's Note:**

> Honor to whom honor is due, I took lent this headcannon from here (Warning: Bubbleline NOT explicit art (ship of Princess Bubblegum and Marceline from Adventure Time, if you do not like it then please do not open the link):
> 
> http://iwannakissallama.tumblr.com/post/86268131930/i-really-need-to-draw-a-bubbleline-au-where-pb


End file.
